


simmons levels up as a boyfriend and bangs grif the way they both deserve

by relationshipcrimes



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-28 01:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15696948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/relationshipcrimes/pseuds/relationshipcrimes
Summary: After Grif comes back from the moonbase and rejoins the team, Simmons is a little different.





	simmons levels up as a boyfriend and bangs grif the way they both deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



Grif hadn’t had the best or closest relationship with his mother, and frankly he’s not sure he learned much of anything from her example. But there were two things of note to be said about her:

One, when he’d started dating girls, taking them to Windward Mall in the middle of the school day and to beaches in the middle of the humid night, she’d given him a roll of condoms and a wink and that was the end of that. And when he stopped bringing girls on dates and started bringing boys (to “hang out”), she’d given him _two_ rolls of condoms and that was the end of _that_.

Two, when all of these boys and girls wound being some flavor of unrepentant asshole, Grif’s mom had said, “Don’t you think you could do a little better than them?”

Kai went around picking up partners like an exotic pets collector—the odder, the weirder, the more affectionate they were, the more entertained she was. Everyone could see that. But Grif didn’t think much about what his mother had said about Grif’s own taste, not until later. He thinks his mother was onto something. Who managed to date so many assholes on _accident_ ? Once is a fluke; twice is a coincidence; three is a pattern—and Grif had dated _six_ assholes over the course of his high school years, one right after the other.

But she hadn’t said, _Wow, you have terrible luck,_ or _Wow, you have terrible taste in people._ She’d said, _Don’t you think you can do better than them?_

And now Grif’s beginning to suspect what she must have known, all the way back when he was seventeen: _Actually, no, he_ doesn’t _think he can do better._

Then he went off to the military and met Simmons, and a bunch of shit happened for ten years straight and when they finally fucked it was like, okay, great, so this chucklefuck makes seven assholes in a row. Lucky number seven, right? Grif loves having guilty makeouts in Red Base’s bathroom and then having Simmons loudly berate Grif in front of everyone at dinner directly afterwards because Simmons can’t handle a guy touching his dick.

(Or rather, Simmons handles a guy touching his dick just fine when he’s squirming and begging for it. It’s just every _other_ time. Usually starting three seconds post-orgasm.)

But it’s fine. It’s whatever. Not like there’s a ton of other options for getting laid around these parts anyway, and Grif’s still technically getting his rocks off. And Grif’s dated assholes before, you know. He can take some shit from a terrible fuckbuddy who also happens to sometimes be his best friend.

 

* * *

 

 

When the Tower of Procreation goes off and they’re both sweaty and coming down from their orgasms, Simmons doesn’t stop kissing him, which is a change so startling that Grif almost doesn’t kiss back at all. In fact, Simmons crawls over him and presses him to the nearest flat wall like he can’t get enough of Grif, but Simmons is definitely soft right now so that doesn’t add up and Grif doesn’t understand why Simmons hasn’t cut and run yet?

Oh, just kidding. Grif feels it now: the Temple’s still on, and Grif’s still horny off hinky-alien-magic even if his dick can’t physically cooperate yet. Simmons is gearing up for round two. Grif closes his eyes and lets the kiss grow slicker, deeper, taking his time even as Simmons grows impatient. Runs his hands over Simmons’s bare back, winds his fingers tight into Simmons’s sweaty hair until Simmons whimpers and groans, pressing their chests flush together because it’s not often Grif gets Simmons with so many clothes off all at once. He licks into Simmons’s mouth with an agonizing slowness that’s frustrating even to Grif, drinking in Simmons’s increasing desperation until Simmons breaks away with a gasp and says, “Fuck, Grif, I love you so much.”

 _Simmons is going to take that back when this is over,_ Grif thinks dully.

He’s got to make a joke out of it somehow, say something neither of them will regret. Damage control. Diffuse the situation. Think about the long term, think about what will happen when the Tower shuts off and they get out of this closet. Do the Star Wars thing—”I know”—laugh it off, maybe—ignore it—kiss him and say nothing—

He catches a glimpse of Simmons’s face, glazed with lust and looking at Grif like Grif is the most wonderful person in the fucking universe, like _Grif_ is the rare and precious gift Simmons can scarcely believe he’s got in his hands and not the other way around, like it really is. Simmons, the guy who’d tried to catch him off the cliffs of Sidewinder, who’s had his back on the Staff of Charon, who told nerdy cyborg jokes and didn’t even complain about Grif’s dirty laundry anymore—Grif’s chest clenches. He hides his face in Simmons’s shoulder, pressing kisses to his neck, his jaw, like he could stop himself from saying it: “I love you more,” Grif whispers, like he might able to deny he said it at all, but Simmons’s breath hitches and Grif knows he’s been caught.

“I love you _most_ ,” says Simmons. There’s a tiny crooked grin in his voice that sounds (if Grif’s not projecting) relieved.

Simmons is going to regret what he’s saying. Grif’s trying to keep the smile off his face and he can’t. Oh, hell, he’s never going to hear this from Simmons again, Grif’s got to take advantage of the moment. “It’s not a fucking competition, damn. I just love you,” he says.

Simmons gives a nervous, exhilarated little laugh. His hips are beginning to move again; Grif’s dick’s finally got back up. “Did—did you make that _‘fucking competition’_ pun on purpose?”

“Who do you think I am? Of course I did,” Grif says, and puts his hands on Simmons’s hips to better drag Simmons’s cock against his own. Simmons braces himself against the wall behind Grif’s head, bottom lip trapped in his teeth, rolling with Grif’s rhythm. “And it’s also not a Fucking Competition either,” Grif says, “unless we wanna see how loud I can make you come. The way you moan, half of Chorus’ll hear you coming from inside this closet.”

Simmons flushes like this is the first time he’s ever heard Grif’s dirty talk, which it certainly is not. “Oh my god,” he mutters, kissing Grif again, pushing Grif’s hands southward even as Simmons keeps moving, and “God, Grif, oh,” as Grif begins to work his fingers around their cocks, like the words are getting fucked out of him: “Ah, Grif, I love you, I love you, so _much,_ ah, Grif, _ah—”_

 

* * *

 

 

After the Temple incident, Simmons can barely look at Grif for a week. Grif figures that’s about as good as if Simmons had told him he didn’t mean what he’d said straight to his face.

 

* * *

 

 

Now, if there‘s ever a time that Grif deserved to get fucking roasted for his terrible mistakes, it’s after Grif’s fucked up and abandoned all his friends in favor of sitting on a moon for no reason other than that he wanted to throw a huge bitchfit over Church like a huge orange baby. Going back to Iris is the ghost of all those days and nights, except that now the voices and the volleyballs and the ringing, pounding silence has been replaced by the actual Reds and Blues, who take up their residences like they’d never left and Grif had never wandered into anyone’s rooms in the middle of the night and seen on empty beds and empty tables and empty rec rooms and empty, empty, empty. Now, when Grif goes into Simmons’s room, the room actually contains Simmons, and it’s a relief so strong it knocks him off-kilter every time.

On the very first night, Simmons crawls into Grif’s room and they don’t even fuck. They just sit there and neck like teenagers until they fall asleep, and Simmons keeps staring at Grif like he’s never seen him before.

The second day back, Simmons throws a curry in a crockpot, brown rice in the rice-cooker, cleans out the kitchen, and restocks the fridge. Sarge has Simmons’s arm opened up on the kitchen table while Tucker apparently sleeps facedown on the same table with coffee cooling in his hands. Grif doesn’t ask who the curry’s for, because there’s only fat jokes down that road, so mostly he sits there and winces every time Simmons pulls out something moldy and expired from the fridge and has to throw it away.

“Christ, this place went to shit,” Simmons mutters. As best as he can with only one arm, he gets the disinfectant out and a rag and props the refrigerator door open.

“Absolute pigsty!” says Sarge, muttering over the arm. “Frankly, I’m more surprised that Grif didn’t inhale everything edible within the first hour!”

“Yeah, well,” says Grif. “You know me. I wouldn’t touch Simmons’s weird vegan bowls on pain of death.”

“This doesn’t explain why there’s ten loads of laundry clogging up the laundry room, Private Grif!”

Grif looks at Sarge balefully. Grif’s a captain. Grif doesn’t correct Sarge. “Well, y’know. It was just me and the volleyballs and none of us give a shit about being clean.”

This is where Simmons makes a crack about how Grif is the worst and absolutely filthy and terribly lazy, but mostly Simmons gives him a sidelong, worried look, so plain and earnest that it makes _Grif_ feel naked. “Lack of imagination as per usual,” Sarge goes on, oblivious, “can’t even imagine up a personality for a volleyball that can figure out what disinfectant is!”

“I wouldn’t clean either, honestly,” says Simmons.

Sarge gives Simmons a look from the corner of his eye. Tucker raises his head and glares at Simmons like he’s ruined Tucker’s facedown nap on the kitchen table.

“What?” says Simmons, with a weird lack of defensiveness. Simmons always says, _What?_ like it’s an accusation; now it just sounds like a genuine question.

“ _That’s_ a lie if I ever heard one,” says Tucker. “Pretty sure it’s physically impossible for you to not be clean.”

“Maybe, but I’d at least give it a shot. And if I was living alone and it wouldn’t inconvenience anyone, I don’t see why not. Like—maybe there’s nothing wrong with being a little dirty sometimes,” says Simmons. “Or being lazy, or eating junk food. It’s good to have, um… opposites.”

“If this is your attempt at philosophy, it’s the worst I’ve ever heard. Red Team has only room for one mass of dead weight,” says Sarge.

And this is where Simmons gets indignant and defensive because Sarge, his theoretical father-figure or father-replacement or whatever, just dunked him in the trash, but instead Simmons just snorts and says, “Sarge, you’ve never read any philosophy either.”

“I’ve read _Art of War_!”

“You read the introduction to the SparkNotes,” says Simmons dryly, and looks at Grif over Sarge’s head with the dryest smile, like they’re sharing a private joke. Which they _are_ , and they do that all the time, but—not like this? “Can I have my arm back yet?”

Sarge grumbles and picks up his screwdriver again. “You can’t rush art, Simmons. You especially can’t rush art when you’ve overclocked the gears trying to stab your doppelganger in the face! Honestly—trying to _stab_ someone—you should’ve just shot ‘im! Gut shot! Blammo! What kind of Red are you?!”

“Good thing Grif shot him like a proper Red, then,” says Simmons mildly, which sounds like a compliment but that can’t be right because Simmons doesn’t _do_ compliments towards Grif. When Tucker stands up to dump his coffee in the sink, Simmons waves the stump of his arm and says, “Can you get me some plates? I’m not hungry, but it’s lunchtime and we need at least one for Grif.”

“Holy shit, you two really are married,” says Tucker, and Simmons doesn’t argue, doesn't even glare, just holds out his hand for the plate.

 

* * *

 

 

This is not the weirdest thing about Simmons post-split. Simmons not complaining about Grif, or insulting him, or panicking over little things that don’t matter—honestly, that’s been a long time coming, if only because Simmons only has so much energy to complain. The weirdest thing is that on the third day back, Grif’s working through a cold beer while rifling through Simmons’s notes for the DnD campaign he’s setting up with Caboose, and Grif says, “Figures you’d be a wizard. Brainy and squishy with zero stamina.”

Instead of getting snippy and scratchy, Simmons gives a little self-conscious grin and says, “And also obsessed with _really_ old literature that nobody else gives a shit about, yeah. I’m gonna make my wizard a Conjurer whose only weapons are nine ancient DVDs containing the Star Wars movies.”

Grif chokes on his beer. “You did _not_.”

Simmons pulls out a character sheet and points right to where he’s got his inventory. “I’m gonna summon _Captain_ _Phasma_ ,” he says, unironically delighted.

Grif dies a little bit.

Simmons snickers, although it’s a little bit more like a giggle, his eyes and nose scrunched up and his freckles caught in his laugh lines. And _that’s_ the weirdest thing, by far—Simmons smiling, and not even in the way like he’s been surprised into it. It’s an easy smile. It’s a nice smile. God, who fucking knew that when Simmons isn’t caught up in sneering like he’s got a stick up his ass, he actually has a _nice smile_?

Shit, now Grif’s thinking about Simmons’s mouth again. And not in a platonic way, either. Grif’s going to kick his own ass for being a schmoopy idiot if it turns out that Grif’s getting turned on from Simmons’s smile. Even if he does have such cute freckles and thin pink lips and cheekbones that make Grif wanna touch to see if they’re as sharp as they look, or maybe see those cheekbones dripping with his cum.

They’re locked away in Simmons’s room, which they both know is a precaution against their tendency to turn mild bantering into an impromptu boning sesion when they least expect it. Simmons has a knowing look in his eye like he knows where Grif’s thoughts are going. (Grif kind should hope that he does, considering how long they’ve been fucking on and off.)

“You’re so embarrassing,” says Grif, scooting closer to Simmons on the bed.

Here, Simmons should scowl and say, _Shut up, I’m not embarrassing_ , but instead he rolls his eyes and says, “Oh no, somebody better stop me and my mouth before I say something even _more_ embarrassing.”

Okay, Grif doesn’t know what kind of witchcraft Simmons is using to be this hot right now, but he’s not turning down an invitation like that, so he leans in and Simmons meets him halfway for once. Usually kissing Simmons feels like a race against Simmons’s internal monologue berating himself for liking dick, but today the kiss is slow and lazy, both weirdly foreign but still familiar in the way Simmons moves his lips, his immediate grab for Grif’s waist, Simmons’s legs falling open on instinct.

God, Grif missed Simmons _so much_ when he was gone. But of course they could never say that out loud—

Simmons pulls away and says, “I wanna do something for you.”

Shit, and Grif’s brain was just on the verge of going offline. “What? What something?”

“A sex something.”

“Like, you’ve got something in mind?”

“No, as in, tell me what you want me to do for you, and I’ll give it a shot.”

So Grif has definitely entered an alternate universe, because Simmons never even asked what Grif wanted on the rare occasion they did birthday sex; either Simmons was too shy or too self-absorbed or too repressed to have ever said the words. “What’s the special occasion?” Grif asks suspiciously.

“Uh,” says Simmons. His face colors before he hides his face in Grif’s shoulder, which is unfairly cute for a white guy of nearly thirty years. “I dunno. I feel like it.”

“Jesus, Simmons, are you secretly dying and this is sad last-day-of-your-life sex?”

“If this was the last sex of my life, there would be way more toys involved,” Simmons says, apparently without thinking, because Grif has no idea how else to explain how those words exited Simmons’s prude, snooty mouth. “Just let me do something for you. We can call it reunion sex. Uhh, make-up sex? Post-kinda-break-up sex? ‘I’m glad you’re back’ sex?”

 _I’m glad you’re back?_ Simmons is always saying shit he doesn’t mean during sex, goddamn. “I’m the one who fucked up and left in the first place—”

“Grif, you’ve already apologized and I don’t even think there was all that much to apologize _for_. Are you gonna try out your obscure kinks or what? Because otherwise I’m just going to sit on your dick.”

Grif nearly chokes on his tongue. Simmons gives him a slightly embarrassed look, but doesn’t back down. “ _You_ said that we couldn’t do that position because I wasn’t allowed to be lazy during sex,” Grif says accusingly.

“Oh my god, do you want the reunion sex or not, Grif?!”

Grif needs to stop nerfing the reunion sex, probably. Especially if it involves Simmons riding his dick.

Grif takes his time about prepping Simmons, tasting Simmons’s skin, his mouth, dragging it out until he’s gone past prep and has really started finger-fucking him, like he might subtly distract Simmons from doing anything nice for Grif at all. “Grif—there—again—god, that’s so good,” Simmons pants into Grif’s mouth, but when Grif tries to touch his cock, he pushes his hand away and smacks Grif until he gets up. “Grif, if you keep doing that, I’ll come from just your fingers.”

“Yeah, dude, I’m okay with that.”

“I’m trying to do something special for _you_ ,” Simmons grumbles, looking vaguely annoyed even halfway to orgasm, a truly impressive and distinctively Simmons ability that makes Grif snicker. Mostly Grif just wants to have Simmons in any sort of way, and it really doesn’t matter how, but that’d be cheesy and dumb and definitely not a thing Grif’s would let himself say during sex, so he lets Simmons flip them over and stroke Grif back to full hardness.

As Simmons lines up over him, he gives Grif a warning look. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but stop doing work,” he warns. “I’m doing something nice for you.”

Grif reaches for Simmons’s waist. “Yeah, but at least—”

“No,” Simmons says and inhales as the tip of Grif’s cock slips in. “Hands off. No touching.”

Grif’s hands hold the sheets instead. _Shit, shit, new kink discovered_ , Grif thinks, as he watches Simmons sink down entirely without Grif’s help, feels every inch of Simmons’s ass stretching around his cock, until he’s flush against him. “Oh, that’s good,” Simmons sighs. Even when his eyes flutter closed, he’s got his bottom lip between his teeth in concentration. (He always does that when he’s trying too hard during sex. Grif loves knowing that about Simmons.)

Tight and hot and oh, it never gets old to see Simmons’s body take his dick. “Good to move?” Grif asks. His hands feel lonely. He just wants to touch Simmons, to feel his hips move under his palms, wrap around his cock and feel how hard Simmons is for him, but Simmons said no touching, so what’s a guy to do? When Simmons doesn’t respond, Grif’s hips give a gentle thrust.

Simmons’s eyes fly back open. “Stop moving or I’ll hold you down myself.”

Grif almost whines. Actually, he probably does whine, because there’s that flash of smile again, a hint of teeth, and then Simmons begins to bounce in earnest, and ah, there’s that desperation that Grif knows, that neediness, as Simmons fucks himself on Grif’s cock, cheeks and chest flushing red as his panting turn to moans. “Grif, ah, _god_ ,” Simmons says, and Grif groans and twists his fingers in the bedsheets and wonders if he could play off thrusting up on accident as Simmons’s head tilts up, eyes half-lidded and looking right at Grif like he’s the whole world, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than splitting himself on Grif’s dick. The bedsprings are beginning to creak. “Fuck, Grif—”

“God, you should see yourself,” Grif says instead of _I love you_ or _Fucking marry me you prissy bastard_. “Let me touch you—”

“Hands _off_. I can make us both come from this.”

Grif throws his head back and squeezes his eyes. “Simmons, Simmons…”

“I missed you so much, Grif,” Simmons gasps. “I missed this, I missed you, god…”

 _Shit_. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do, I mean it, I missed you, I even mean what I said in the tower but I know and I know you think it doesn’t count because I said it during sex but I do, I missed you so much—”

Holy shit, if Grif comes from being told sappy nonsense from Simmons during sex, he’s going to die of shame. “Please, Simmons, god, let me touch you, at least stroke you, _c’mon_.”

Simmons’s eyes are fever-bright. “Say _please_ again.”

“Please, please, Simmons, please—”

“Please _what_ —”

“Let me touch you, fuck you, let me jerk you off, anything, just—”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Simmons, Grif wraps his hand around Simmons’s cock immediately, and Simmons actually stops moving, looking like he’s barely staving off orgasm.

Grif takes the moment and flips Simmons back over, bends Simmons nearly in half to give him a messy kiss, thrusts hard, Simmons’s breathy cries in his ear, saying his name, Simmons’s cyborg fingers scrabbling insistently down his back as Grif picks Simmons’s hips up off the bed and fucks him deep, over and over until Simmons goes taut and comes all over his own stomach, arms still wrapped around Grif, teeth gritted like he always does when he comes as Grif fucks him through his orgasm, and Simmons has barely come down when he moans, “Keep going, keep going, fuck me, come _on_ , Grif, come inside,” until Grif whites out and does exactly that, Simmons grinding his hips back against Grif’s to get every drop until Grif’s entirely spent and sweaty and exhausted and still bent over Simmons folded in half like a fucking pretzel. Simmons is also panting, chest heaving and eyes closed, Simmons’s cheek resting against Grif’s until he turns to the side and kisses him, sucking on Grif’s tongue with Grif’s cock still inside him. It’s absolutely filthy. Jesus fucking christ, Grif gets stuck in a moonbase for two fucking weeks and Simmons turns into a pornstar.

“I mean it,” Simmons says when he pulls away. “I missed you so much, Grif.”

Grif’s stomach flips and he gives a nervous laugh.  “You don’t mean that,” he says, even though the sex is over and there’s no Tower of Procreation nearby, and all logic says that if none of that’s in play then maybe Simmons might actually mean that, but that just—can’t be right.

“Yes, I do,” says Simmons. Grif pulls away and pulls out, putting Simmons’s hips back on the bedsheets as gently as he can. Simmons only winces a little and waves Grif’s look away. “This is why I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You did do something nice, Simmons. You already fucked me.”

“No, I fucked you for a bit, and then you fucked _me_ for the last bit because I lost my own train of thought. I was going to make you come just from the riding alone,” says Simmons, disappointedly, and Grif’s dick makes a valiant attempt at a second erection. “I said I wanted to do something for you and then we ruined it halfway through.”

Grif wheezes. Simmons is wiping come off his own stomach with a shirt, he’s only made a half-hearted attempt to clean up Grif’s come from his ass, his lips are kiss-bitten, and Grif’s warm and tired in a wonderful way. “Yeah, I don’t know if this is really the definition of ‘ruined’.”

Simmons, moderately cleaner, crawls into Grif’s arms and collapses. “We should try again, though,” Simmons insists.

“What’s the special occasion?”

Simmons groans and rolls his eyes. “I _missed you_ ,” he says again, and instead of berating Grif for asking the same question twice or jumping out of bed to have a gay meltdown, Simmons comes in closer, skin still sweaty and hair still ruined, and sighs, apparently in Grif’s arms to stay.

Grif, eventually, considers believing him.


End file.
